The NightMayor before Christmas: Zombie-Rob Ford returns from the dead to tell his bro’: “This time I want REVENGE!!!!”+PLUS+ Random Reco’s

We didn’t use enough garlic. Or stakes.  Or garlic steaks.  Or something important.  Obviously! Because now – there’s TWO OMFG, EIGHT of them!

Aw Jeez, Louise, not another one!

Sometimes… trying to choose my words, here … sometimes…

… how to put thissometimes it’s like, you’ve just this minute finished whacking your living-dead disgrace of an ex-mayor in the noggin with a coal scuttle, chopping off his flabby, pustule-sprouting, gangrenous limbs and throwing the whole squalid, stinking mess of decaying arms, legs, torso and head into an anonymous pit filled with quicklime, where, upon impact, said body parts explode like overripe melons – and then, goldarnit, what happens but you have to, like, turn right around and do it all over again.  What the fuck??!!

You ever get that?  Yes, no?

That’s how I felt yesterday, when I learned that living-dead Zombie-Rob’s brother, Doug Ford, was busier than a pedophile hockey coach on Junior League Recruitment Day rousing the Ford Nation rabble in a last-ditch attempt to finish the job his brother started, namely:-

The zombie-engineered total evisceration, deracination, exfoliation and extirpation of the city of Toronto.

(“Evisceration??” says Zombie-Rob, salivating:  “Sounds like luuuuunch!”)

But this isn’t just picking up where Zombie-Robbie Baby, the Un-Doug, left off.  Oh no, my terrorized little Virginias, this is exponentially more.  This time—inspired by his ghoulish bro’s beyond-the-grave lust for revenge (and that unexpected zombie-Rob-hankerin’ in the afterlife for his favorite tea-time snack, a bucket of KFC, hold the salad, dude)—this time—

Doug’s MAD.  REAL mad, the way only a 905-er can git.  He’s mad down to his white wall mag tires, Stanfield boxers, wife-beater and Molson Canadian; he’s mad at those elites, mad at the big words; mad mad mad about bein’ oppressed by a bunch of Politically Correct Women’s Libbers, Yo!

He’s fuckin’ MAD at Margaret Atwood! “Whoever THAT is!”

He’s mad at all those opera-goin’, book-readin’, bureaucracy-lovin’, cocksuckin’, femi-Nazi spendthrifts and non-existent gravy-drinkers at City Hall; and for good measure he’s mad at the teachers and the cyclists and the homos, and why?

Because that’s what white, male, middle-aged heterosexual losers  – a.k.a. str8-tards – do.

By now, dear reader,  you will gather that there is but a single emotional tone here, and the tone is MAD (yes, as in “…as hell and I’m not gonna take it any more!”).  There ain’t enough Fentanyl in the entire soon-to-be-privatized healthcare system to take the edge off this months-long barroom brawl-to-the-bottom.

You may also have discovered, in the course of your spirit-dampening sploosh through the brackish standing water of the innernet, the following truths:

When liberals get mad at something, nine times out of ten it’s because some minority – like say, LGBTQ2, or women, or the homeless, or people of color, or Gaia – is once again being offered that endlessly-extolled all-you-can-eat buffet of fresh, steaming-hot shit sandwiches.

And hold the phone, did I say “minority”? ‘Cause when you add up all those “minorities” you’ll find you end up with just about every single non-str8-tard person on the planet.

But when Conserva-tards, or TeaParty-tards, or any rightwing-tard at all gets mad, it’s not righteous anger on someone else’s behalf. Righteous anger on someone else’s behalf is – are you sitting down? – socialist !  No, when they’re mad, it’s because no one is paying enough fucking attention to THEM.

So this time, Doug—with Zombie-Rob breathing that scorched, fetid  just-plain-folks zombie-breath into his ear—this time bro’ means business.

This time Doug’s gonna make damn sure it happens…

[To be, unfortunately, continued…]

… Poor old fat dumb regular-guy Robbie.
He never realized we just needed a good laugh for a few months
While he ran Toronto like a teen with an I.Q. of 50,
A pipe full of hard,
And a not very interesting hobby…

from my Canada Day Ode
A Beaver in Polite Company

Random Reco’s

In which I shamelessly pad my blog – gawd, that sounds rude – with, like, Totally??!!  Random??!! recommendations of sites I’ve stumbled across while trying desperately to avoid doing anything remotely resembling “work” (I gagged a bit when I typed that).

Dear Luddite friends,

Now that you’ve learned not to refer to your monitor as “the TV-looking thingy that shows all the pictures” and to not answer, “Where did you find this story about Hillary Clinton creating a secret army of terrorist femiNazis bent on firebombing the Capitol?” with “On the computer”, it is time to yank those potty-training pants right up under your armpits and march bravely into the cyber sphere alone.

How-to Geek will help anyone who doesn’t look at a packet of
Quaker Instant Oatmeal and think, “Too complicated”.

How-To Geek
(opens in a new window)

“A Beaver in Polite Company”

(An Absolutely Epic Ode for Canada Day, July 1st, 2016)


O, CanaDA!

Hail, socialist snow-globe!  Frozen fatherland!

Where moms in babushkas from Hudson’s Bay
Bake their collective way
through corn-syrup nights!

(For it is enshrined in the Charter of Rights
And Freedoms
That all female komrads  – wards of the State from birth to baby-bonus to personopause,
right up until they’re dead –
Must, hélas!
Attain their Ph.D. from
Butter Tart Proletarian University !)

Welcome to Canada, the Sort-Of-Mighty, the Kind-Of-Powerful!
To the Land of the Putative War Against Cars!

From here, we need never go to Mars.
Instead, we go to Winnipeg to experience minus 50

– (that’s approximately a nifty
Freeze your ass off, eh?
in American, non-communist temperature systems  –

And while we’re at it, kudos to the lady from Texas who had heard of us,
Though she thought it meant sailing across an ocean,
Then maybe – taking a bus?

You got it wrong, ma’am, but even knowing our name, and that we’re north,
Shows, at least for a lady from Texas, rare devotion) –

And there in The ‘Peg, we play an Inuit game that involves licking the metal bars
Of fences;
Cause it’s such innocent fun when our tongues get stuck.

And we all put chains on the tires of  our cars.

We wear plaid shirts, and we wear combinations,
We summer in Muskoka where all Hollywood vacations
and we never never never, I mean NEVER go to Mars!

Land of clear-your-ice, your winter civic duty!
We even declared Family Day in February,
So we can be sure of finding an ice floe
For packing with our elderly, so it will be a nice flow

Up the Saint Lawrence and out to sea.
Frankly, in February,
They’re too cold to
Make a commotion.


“Here’s the snow shovel, grandad!  Don’t bother with the salt!
Or the commie-red Canadian Winter Olympics toque that would cover
what’s left of your hair!
And remember to leave my St-Jean-Baptiste Day card by the leftover tourtière!
Hey, how’s that hip replacement?  Still hurtin’?”

Ah, Kwanzaa-ligButter Tartshts on fir trees!
I mean, pine!
The ring of the shovel on ice!
Each step a crunch of
Canadian Tire mukluk,
You can be certain!

Mon dieu !  Qu’est-ce qui ce passe ?!??

His asthmatic wheezing, the left arm pain!

“Don’t worry, children, I feel just fine — !”

As he falls, pardon my French, on his ass!

The sudden thump, the lifeless lump of –

“Here’s your Timmies hot chocolate, Grandad!
Did you decide to have a little nap?
And why did you take off one new mukluk?

Your face and hands are a funny shade of blue!
Grandad? Grandad??!!  Holy fuck!!!”

Au revoir!  Goodbye!  Oh, grandad, it’s true!
Nous sommes tous Canadiens/Canadiennes !
We’re Canadian! We’re – more or less – glad we knew you!

 Quoi ????  Ahhh,  croyez donc, c’est pas de problème !!

O Canada!

Taut muscle + tousled hair + Winner of the Rim Job Thought Experiment = The Person Called Trudeau.

Land of fortitude, of hunky men!
Land of Lumberjacks, RCMP’s!
And a dishy, non-crazy Prime Minister who makes us all weak at the knees,
Whatever his (to an American, anyway) socialist-verging-on-North-Korean proclivities!

Goodbye, general elections!
Hello, seeing Justin
And getting erections!


Cause…. He’s… the…

Yes! he’s the Person-called-Trudeau!
His dad was Pierre, his mom was Maggie,
He’s working real hard to make legal the “baggie” –
That’s all you have to know, you know?
That’s all you have to know!

And this dynasty henceforth defines our nation –
Wait forty years, till little Emperor Hadrien – the Person-Called-Trudeau for our grandkids’ generation – ascends the throne

By Acclamation?
(Yes, though Trickie Dickie’s a tiny bit too dead to have that conversation – )
By Acclamation!

O Canada!

Free-shipping-2013-Sexy-Royal-Men-s-Mountie-Costume-Fashion-Canada-Mounted-Police-Uniform-for-LadiesGodless refuge of the Devil’s Own North!
Where atheist gays marry dogs with impunity

And polygamy is mandatory, on penalty of death !

Where Québec’s Satanic priests (The original Hell’s angels),
Are allocated one free orphaned choirboy yearly by the State,

And la biche, one permitted per authorized family unit, is kept “on ze side, heins?”

– or else on a leash –

‘Cause to be célibataire is –
Even for a priest with stale whisky breath –
Too awful to contemplate!

All together, now – !

« Tabernac ! »
« Marie-Joseph ! »

O Canada!

Where the word “beaver” is always appropriate in polite company!

Polite company being all of us.

Canadians are so un-apt to make any kind of fuss, Lenin only knows!
Why, we’ll apologize to YOU
When YOU step on OUR toes!

O, Canada, Canada!

Poor we!  These chains that chafe and bind us!
Only a measly handful of banks, who tend, discreetly, to remind us
When our credit’s getting a teensy bit high.

Now what kind of attitude is that?
At this rate, we’ll never make first-class!

I mean, when did we
ever destroy the entire world’s economy?

Moss Park rebuilt, as though somewhere nice to live is what poor people deserve !
The Spadina Expressway, The Island Airport, cancelled – for what?!
Who needs old houses anyway, and parks, and waterfronts – and  — !
Cancelled for sheer lack of
– well, it’s about time someone said it –
Nerve, that’s what!  Nerve!

But that’s us, so lax, no greed!
So callously indifferent to Porter’s bottom line!

Even considering he kept us in the dark
About Phase 2, his plan
To put the runways in High Park.

So lacking in get-up-and-go, that’s we!

So lacking in so many things we need, like –
A casino on Front Street.
A ferris wheel.

Those died with Ford, just our luck,
Not one but three acts of god.

You wanna know just how bad it is?

We’re not even aspirational enough to want
Our own loud, nasty, thin-skinned fraud! 

Poor old fat dumb regular-guy Robbie.
He never realized we just needed a good laugh for a few months
While he ran Toronto like a teen with an I.Q. of 50,
A pipe full of “hard”,
And a not very interesting hobby.

Even then, we didn’t complain.  We just voted.  How boring!
We didn’t even complain when that Tommy Douglas forced us!
Forced us to have health care!

Took our hard earned dollars, of course,
But what’s worse, stole our god-given right of ignoring
the tumors until they’re big as a horse.

Too late it dawned on us:
Yeah, right!  Make us live longer
And then you’ll have longer to fuck us over with more taxes, oh yes,
We’re onto you!  We get the agenda – !

Gone, thanks to unser Kommandant Douglas, jawohl!
Gone forever our god-given freedom to declare bankruptcy!
Far, far better, we confess,
To pay that surgeon fifty thousand
And another fifty thousand to the hospital
Than to be robbed each year of two hundred and change by bureaucrats!
What unbearable duress!
Thank you, Nanny State!  Great Big Brother Government!

At least the Americans, god bless ’em, didn’t go down without a fight!
We feel your pain!  But not to worry.

Why, the day of your liberation is so close you can almost smell freedom again!

Soon you’ll have Trump, and he’ll fire
President Towel-Head and his niqab-clad wife and daughters, those uppity niggers,
And cancel your atheist, abortion-reeking death-panelled healthcare sort-of system

So you can – thank-you, Jesus!  –
go back to paying two hundred thousand plus tax for a house call
(assuming you have no pre-existing conditions and stay in your current job as Happiness Engineer at Arby’s)
or just  – die in a hurry!

That’s the beauty of choice, of dog-eat-dog and survival of the fittest!
(Oh, yes – you believe in evolution alright,
Just selectively, when it makes a good sound-byte…)

And up here we’ll be,
In the Union of Soviet Socialist Kanada,
Little Stalins in fetters, cyanotic with envy,
In the land where nothing’s black and white,  just white and red,
Where an evening’s entertainment is lining up for scraps of bread,

And where a Sikh can be a cop, wear a turban on his head!

(Our citizens all disarmed!  Can’t even spend commercial breaks
Protecting our women-folk from stampeding herds of buffalo
Or mowing down traitors – or the occasional –

homo –

Now there’s at least an efficient death-panel! ) –

In the land where, as you well know from seeing Fox TV,
Our own atheist abortion-reeking tyrannical
Health-care system, collapsing five-yearly,  centrally-planned (did
You warn us?  You did!)

Why, you could see your wife admitted to the crumbling
Central People’s Hospital of Torontokistan while in labour

People’s Central Hospital of Torontokistan:  Private rooms available!

– and not even be issued your visitor’s pass until it’s time to greet the first grandkid!

Zut, alors!” cries People’s Revolutionary Atheist Abortion-Assistant Marxist Midwife, Rank 34,

“It is imperative that we find more raspberry Jell-O for Bed 4,093, komrad, 48th floor!”

And when you can’t take it anymore, just slip the surgeon
A few crumpled rubles. If it gets him the Jell-O, hell, oh he might
Do you a favour.

O, Canada – !

The dad of current Person-Called-Trudeau, Who
Was himself also A Person Called Trudeau, and so on and forth,
Once said
That to live with our restive pal, our buddy to the south
Was rather like sharing a peanut- and shrapnel-filled bed
(Alright, I’m putting a few extra words in his mouth)
With an elephant – an elephant with sleep apnea and a tendency
To get restless legs, and every so often
Just out and out
Shove you.

Tant pis.

He made the joke, if you check the fact,
Just before enacting the War Measures Act.
Which was itself a shove and a half.
Nonetheless, Quebeckers always have the last laugh, because –

We have to sing O, CanaDA, forever that way.
The word-setting works perfectly – but only en français.
They were first to get their hat in.

Terre de nos aïeux.
Je me souvien

And O, CanaDA,
No matter who may
Shove you:

A Mari Usque Ad Mare!
Or, rough translation from the Latin:

Fuck, I
Love you.

©David Roddis, 20162017




“[The flag] will symbolize to each of us—and to the world—the unity of purpose and high resolve to which destiny beckons us.”

His Excellency Major-General the Right Honourable Georges Vanier,
Governor-General of Canada (1959 – 1965),
at the Inauguration of
the National Flag of Canada,
February, 1965.

The “Our” of His Death.

Revised May 13, 2016.

Rob Ford. Rob Ford is on my mind. God and all the friggin’ archangels help me.  That’s at least two brain cells gone forever.

As erstwhile Mayor of Toronto, Ford exhibited the frustration, temper and childish resentment of someone who had been placed in a position whose responsibilities he knew he wasn’t capable of meeting. As a private citizen, a tormented and guilt-ridden “secret” addict, he had the defensive demeanour and uncontained ferocity of a cornered animal.

If only that ferocious energy could have been harnessed for good; that is to say, not just good for Rob Ford and his ego, but truly good for Toronto and all of its citizens.

As his intellectual and political mortal enemy, I hated his utter lack of vision for this city, a predictable, dispiriting focus on “stopping the gravy train” (though consultants KPMG, hired to identify the “gravy”, found none), and lowering taxes (because taxes, in the black-and-white world of the Tea Party and their spiritual ilk, are always wrong, taxes are “big government”‘s flame-thrower in the war against property owners, the war against the car; though no one asks how, for example, roads would be planned and paved and maintained, or who would be paying for them.  Apparently not the car owners, or the manufacturers of the vehicles).

It was, true to the conservative ideology, a mayor-dom of negatives, a great big world full of “no”;  if you can’t cut it, close it, stop it or jail it, it’s not in the conservative toolkit. Their social-Darwinist predisposition is to build nothing, but simply dismantle what’s there with no intent beyond the David-versus-Goliath optics and a supreme ignorance of historical context.

Ironically in Ford’s case, his hatred of big government was coupled with an egomania so pathological and a sense of entitlement so dictatorial that he failed to comprehend that his mandate was not to rule by fiat but to achieve consensus via City Council.

This is how you wake up one day and discover that your mayor and his brother – that phrase in itself speaks scary volumes – are advocating for a casino and a Ferris wheel on the most historic section of Front Street East.  Ideology or crack cocaine?  Only a conservative would know for sure…

Rob Ford (1969 – 2016). The controversial, rabble-rousing former Mayor of Toronto has died of cancer at the age of 46.

I was mad, Christina, so very mad at the dirt of Ford’s misogyny and his homophobia and his sheer willful plodding idiocy and his “just plain folks” demagoguery that painted all government as inherently bad, all spending as inherently gratuitous, all culture as an unnecessary frill.

I hated that he had wadded himself with fat, the better to bulldoze his way through life; hated his embarrassing outbursts (who’s Margaret Atwood, though that unbelievable comment is perhaps properly shared with his angry buffoon of a brother).

Above all I hated how he divided us:  905 area coders versus 416 (plain-folks ‘burbs vs. elitist downtowners); gay versus straight, tax-wasting culture vultures vs. sensible Boomer radio middle- and low-brow; Canadians against immigrants, cars against bikes, every fucking thing against everything else, as though citizenship was a zero-sum game of winners (cars, hockey) and losers (bikes, Pride).

A true leader, with vision, who has the courage to ask, “What kind of city do we want? How can we do better by all of our citizens?  What are we going to do about poverty and homelessness? What kind of environment do we want to leave to the next generation?” – a true leader thinks big, thinks to the future; a true leader unites, inspires and energizes.

Poor Rob Ford.  Just a regular guy.  

Men learn to be men of vision, to be civilized beings instead of marauding appetite machines, from wise mentors (often, but not always, their fathers): painfully, slowly, step by humiliating step. It takes a lifetime.

Rob Ford, I think it safe to say, had poor mentors.

And now that he’s gone, if I were to dwell on Rob Ford and his “journey”, I could feel for him; feel how lost he was and experience sadness about unrealized potential and limited horizons and separation and low self-esteem.  I could probably bury the hatchet.

could probably do all of that.

But I’m greedy for exceptional men.  Regular guys can do my accounting, I want exceptional ones to be in charge.  If you hold public office you are accountable for your actions, and the potential harm you do affects millions; harm that may take decades to heal.

Harm that spins out to its conclusion well after you’ve left office.

Which is why I cannot feel sorry that Ford is gone; will not, cannot forgive his brazen attempt to diminish Toronto’s greatness and destroy Toronto’s future through his arrogance and ineptitude.

Give me the grace to stop now before I become uncivilized. The ersatz king is dead. Long live Toronto.

Projected future skyline of Toronto.  Photo / digital composite credit:  Scott Dickson, Upside Down Marketing and Design (via Huffington Post).  ©Scott Dickson, 2016.  Use of this image with attribution does not, and is not intended to, imply endorsement of the views contained in this post, which are the sole responsibility of the author.


May I Call You Justin? or, R-r-r-r-oll up and r-r-r-rim to win™!

Well,  come Monday the 19th, I donned my tiara with the great, big flashing “L-for-loser” and trotted off, unopened VISA bill in hand, to vote, non-strategically, for the Beard Party.

Taut muscle + tousled hair + Winner of the Rim Job Thought Experiment = The Person Called Trudeau.
Taut muscle + tousled hair + Winner of the Rim Job Thought Experiment = The Person Called Trudeau.

Mainly ’cause of their free Birkenstocks platform and their fantastic thank-you-gift collectibles for any voter over nine who could be persuaded.

I’m thinking – and these are just the ones that are top of mind – of the Special Election Edition Linda McQuaig “Make My Hair Pretty – Please?®” Doll (cheap batteries, tube of Dippity-Do and tiny, dandruff -encrusted brush included); and of course the Jack Layton Memorial Steeped Tea Mug with inspirational quote  – “I said it was massage and Olivia says so too!”- which dribbles “Sleepy-Time” onto your white collar through its secret hole and then just –  breaks.

You may be wondering.

Voting in our first-past-the-post system brings with it all the enfranchised fun of buying a Lotto 649 ticket just after you’ve spent your rent money on another ball of “hard”. Though it be ever so complex, all you need to know about this system is that voting for who you believe in is for chumps.  Believe in?! Puh-lllllease!  

You vote for anyone you think will win who’s not the person you don’t want to win, and/or the person called Trudeau, whichever comes first.  Are you getting this down?

My vote for facial hair therefore virtually guaranteed the sweeping into power of the National Liberal-Twink Alliance Who Are Virtually Indistinguishable From The Conservatives But Certainly More Hot If It Is, In Fact,The Person Called Trudeau.

Rim-Job Thought Experiment™ To Determine Voting Preferences:

To determine which Canadian election candidates are “hot”, and therefore who to vote for, try this Rim-Job Thought Experiment™.  Yes, ladies, you too!

Part 1:  Are you lying on your back?  OK.  First, imagine Stephen Harper sitting on your face.  Look, I didn’t say this was going to be easy.  That’s right, you got it, go to town with this image.  Fill in lots of detail.  Spare yourself nothing regarding his personal hygiene, unkempt pubic hair or lack thereof, his reactions.  DOES he react, that’s a good point, excellent work, Céline!   You see?

Now, in preparation for Part 2, please brush your teeth.

Part 2:  OK, now, on the other hand, imagine The Person Called Trudeau lowering his ass onto your already wagging, eager tongue.  Keep going, make this as concrete as possible!  Imagine his ululations of pleasure as you probe and savor!  Get specific!  Does he grind his butt?  Or does he just let his weight settle down, down, down, so you fear – or hope – you might meet your maker while clamped in his luscious, gluteal embrace?  Bring. It. ON!  Right?

Conclusions:  So, having tried the Rim Job Thought Experiment™, who do you think is hotter?  Well, I would definitely agree with you!  Yes, I am kind of awesome, and it’s sweet of you to bring it up yet again!

Thus, with a Canada-wide blast of hold-your-nose-and-anyone-but-Harper mass strategic voting,  an eerie is-this-Alzheimer’s-or-is-it-really-1972? wave of déja-vu, and a collective panty-moistening of every female over 45 in the entire country,  we elected The Person Called Trudeau in a landslide of taut muscle, tousled hair and optimism.

Steve Harper, that glassy-eyed alien (and for that matter, his crack-fueled croney Rob Ford, Toronto City Hall’s very own “Night With Chucky“) was nothing after all but a second-rate, tone-deaf accountant at karaoke night dreaming he was onstage at Massey Hall.

Mr Harper? Your rapture flight will now board, and may you and yours have swift and final uplift.

And Mr Ford?  Robbie Baby Bobbie Boobie?  Eat more food, dude.  You hear me?  Robert darling?


A large, malignant Fordoma

BREAKING NEWS: Operation to remove huge, malignant Fordoma from Toronto only partially successful.

The malignant Fordoma that was removed from Toronto being wheeled away.
The malignant Fordoma that was removed from Toronto being wheeled away. Yuk! (© 2015, David DelaRoddis. Licensed under Creative Commons “Steal this photo and say goodbye to answering the front door after 5PM” Version IX. You may be wondering: DelaRoddis is author of “Photography is Hard Unless of Course You’re Me.” Which you should definitely buy.)*

Toronto, May 12th:   Toronto’s prolonged suffering appeared to be at best temporarily at an end today, after an operation to remove a gigantic lump which it has been harboring for the past four years was pronounced guardedly successful.

In this grisly photo – which may cause distress to some – we see the huge, malignant Fordoma that was removed from Toronto being wheeled out of the operating theatre.

“It was touch and go for a bit in there,” said the chief surgeon, Dr Michael “Muddy” York, who appeared exhausted by the ordeal.  “This was definitely one of those aggressive 905-type invasions. They’re tenacious, those buggers!  And dumb…?  Why, I’d rather drink a steeped tea from Timmies than try to discuss Margaret Atwood when one of these low-brow scum-suckers is around!  Talk about embarrassing!”  Dr. York, overcome with emotion, added: “Toronto’s safe for the moment – but not 100% out of the woods yet.”

Toronto is heavily sedated and resting quietly in the recovery ward.  Please, no visitors.

* Actual attribution:  Photo © by 680 CityNews.  
Not really by David DelaRoddis.  Which you kind of knew.